Blue Bells of Scotland: Book One of the Blue Bells Trilogy (47 page)

"No worries." Shawn pulled on the shirt and tunic, buckled the belt, and tied the pouch's drawstrings into it. He headed out into the fair, relieved and shaking, and ambled about, inspecting sheep, buying a turkey leg, talking with the sackbut player. Only after the soldiers gathered and marched out of town, did he turn to the tinkers' caravans.

He found them on the far edge of town in the clearing of a grove—a cluster of gypsy wagons with rounded tops, brightly painted wood, cheerful blue curtains fluttering in the evening breeze. The woman who had danced sauntered from behind one of them. She rounded the campfire, swirling her skirts within inches of the dancing flames, smiling. Black ringlets tumbled down her back. Her red-nailed hand came to rest on his chest, and she stood on tiptoe to kiss him full on the lips. He caught his breath. All the familiar feelings burst to life. She spoke, a low, husky melody, in a language he'd never heard.

A proposition in any language, he found, was not hard to understand.

As he stared into her black eyes, the weight of his situation settled on him. He was trapped in the wrong time with men who wanted to kill him and no idea how to get back where he belonged. He'd been a long time without a woman—more than a week.

And he did not want this woman or her red nails.

He wanted Amy, sitting on the hillside. He wanted to be in Amy's apartment, handing her tickets to visit her mother, talking half the night; or beside her, arguing about chord structure in a new arrangement. He wanted Amy sleeping against his chest, as Allene had, confident he would protect her.

He wanted Allene's respect.

He stared into the depths of the gypsy woman's eyes, eyes that waited, eyes that promised. "This can't be me," he said, and sadly shook his head.

She laughed, none of her joy lost, and led him to another wagon, where Brother David rested with help from the gypsies' healing herbs. Shawn dropped on the pallet beside him, confident Allene was also being cared for, and sank into deep sleep.

Inverness, Scotland, Present

Niall trailed slowly back to the castle, his mind nowhere near as settled as he'd hoped. His jaw ached. Either choice, as far as he could see, might be God's plan. It might be a miracle that had brought him, meaning he should take care of things here. Or it could be devilment, such that he should fight his way back to his own time. One thought dominated: could the past be changed? He might be abandoning Amy, whom he could help, for an unalterable past, for slaughter and death he could not prevent. He looked up at the sun's decline, and quickened his step. They'd be serving dinner at the castle.

In the great hall—the
dining room
, he corrected himself—a group he vaguely recognized as some of the percussion and brass players hailed him. He carried his plate to their table and seated himself.

"That's quite the bruise!" The older man at the table stared. "What happened?"

Niall touched his jaw. "A mishap," he said.

"Must have been some mishap," said the woman.

"You don't mind joining us, the holy rollers?" the young percussionist asked.

"Of course not," said Niall, seating himself.
Holy rollers
...would he ever understand these people's speech? "Why should I?" Indeed, it felt good to be welcome, despite their open looks of curiosity at his bruised jaw.

The group exchanged uncomfortable looks. Niall raised his eyebrows. Understanding washed over him. These were Shawn's detractors; those he'd sensed giving him disapproving stares the first day. They were, then, Niall thought, most likely exactly his type. He smiled a friendly overture, and used his standard excuse. "I remember nothing before waking in the castle. I'm a new man. I hope we can start anew." Relief sprang up like spring blossoms around the table, skipping from one to the other. All their faces lightened. "You'll forgive me if I ask your names?" Niall said.

Looks of open curiosity shot around the table this time. "So it's true?" asked the woman.

"Excuse me?" Niall bit back the my lady. "Is what true?"

"Amnesia? You really don't remember anything?"

He nodded. "I know nothing of the man you knew, but what I've been told."

"You don't remember the hotel in Edinburgh?" The percussionist spoke doubtfully.

The others shushed him, while Niall confirmed he really didn't. "He asked for a fresh start," said the older man. His white mustache quivered as he spoke. "I will be the first to give it to him." He leaned forward, pressing his large belly into the table, to shake Niall's hand. "Jim."

"Ni...Shawn."

They laughed. "We all remember
you
," said the percussionist. He held out his hand. "Jason, percussion."

Niall nodded. "Yes, I've seen you behind those big drums." Looks flashed around the table again. He wondered what he'd said wrong this time.

The old man spoke again. "You really don't remember me? It was my chair you took."

Niall's eyebrows furrowed. He glanced at his dinner, hungry, but he hadn't prayed. "I took your chair?" Why would Shawn take an old man's chair? He really was despicable, Niall thought. How had he ever found that glimmer of compassion for the scoundrel? An old man needed his chair, after all.

Jim looked equally confused. Perhaps, Niall thought, in this time, old men didn't need their chairs so much? "My chair," Jim said. "You know, first chair." At Niall's continued lack of comprehension, he tried again. "I'm now second chair? Never mind," he said. "It doesn't matter. Personality conflicts aside, I've always said you're a fine player, and I hope you can play again, or the world's lost something."

Jim waved to Amy, leaving the buffet. She joined them, seating herself beside Niall. He studied her, the newfound knowledge of her pregnancy swimming in his mind.

"Shawn," she whispered, leaning close. "What happened?"

"Nothing," he said. "A mishap."

"It's..."

"Later, Amy." He leaned close, shaking out his napkin. Her eyes flew to Rob, at the buffet. "It was nothing," he said again. "Leave it." But he found his own gaze resting on Rob.

"Mike," said the man to Amy's left, continuing the introductions, and Ronda, Matt, 'Still Jim,' Chuck and 'Still Jason.' Niall repeated the names in his head. From the buffet, Rob glared at him. Niall rubbed his jaw.

"We're dying to ask you something." Jim's voice drew his attention back to the table.

Niall's stomach chose that moment to rumble loudly. He touched his stomach. "If you'll excuse me a moment?" He waited for their nods of assent before bowing his head, crossing himself, and praying. He included one for Amy. And another for Rob. Rob would not like his plan. One for Shawn, and several for Allene. Crossing himself again, he smiled around the group before sampling his Atlantic salmon.

There was a moment of stunned silence. Niall looked up to see them all gaping. "That's just it," Jim burst out. "Prayers before meals, the crucifix...." He waved at Niall's throat. Jim gestured, moved his mouth, failing to find words.

"When? Why? How?" Ronda blurted. "You never wore a crucifix. What happened in that castle? Someone shot you, clubbed you, and put a crucifix on you? Where did you even get it?"

"The pawn shop." Niall thought up a story quickly.

"You put that crucifix on the wall." Amy's eyebrows furrowed.

"I bought this one as well," Niall said.

"But why now?" Jim persisted. "Not that we're complaining."

A rush of agreement raced around the table. "The change in you is great," Mike said. "We're burning with curiosity." All of them nodded.

"I can't explain." Niall cut his potato, hoping they'd drop it.

"Were you always Catholic?" Ronda asked.

"Will you be going to church?" said Matt.

"Do you have a favorite saint?" questioned Mike.

The questions flew, till he laughed and held up a hand. He saw no way to reconcile any possible answer with the real Shawn, or even with the supposed amnesia. "I remember nothing," he reminded them. "The crucifix caught my eye. The prayers—I just do. I can't explain."

"You were raised Catholic," Amy suggested.

Niall hoped that would satisfy them. How, if they asked too many questions, could he possibly explain parading as Shawn, much less what had happened to the real Shawn? He wasn't sure, himself. "Help me re-learn all I've forgotten. Tell me about yourselves. Who are your favorite saints?"

"There's an interesting local saint," Jim said. "Margaret Morrison."

Niall set his fork down abruptly. "She's a
saint
now?"

Amy turned to him. "What would you know about any Margaret Morrison and why shouldn't she be a saint?"

"I, uh, I—read about her. On the internet. She didn't start out so saintly." He swallowed hard, hoping they'd buy it. He didn't dare ask what had become of her sister. They all stared at him much as he'd stared at Lord Morrison's identical daughters the first time he'd seen them. Margaret had taken advantage of his surprise to drop a fish down his shirt.

"Well, I'm not Catholic." Ronda broke the momentary silence. Niall wondered what she was, if not Catholic. The Laird had spoken of wild hordes in the East who were not Christian, but Ronda looked nothing like what he'd described. "But I've always admired Peter. All the early disciples, really. Put yourself in their place. If I'd seen Jesus die on a cross, I might still be hiding in the upper room."

"St. Francis," said Chuck, pausing with a forkful of potatoes in mid-air. "Everyone loves St. Francis."

"Yes!" Niall feigned enthusiasm. He'd never heard of the man. "What do you love best about him?"

Amy set her glass down, staring in amazement. "I wouldn't have guessed you ever even heard of St. Francis, Shawn!"

Niall smiled at her, shrugged, and savored his salmon while the others enlightened him.

"His love of animals," said Ronda. "I have his statue in my garden, with a bird feeder, and a salt lick for the deer."

"His humility," said Jim. "Francis is my confirmation name. He loved and accepted everyone, no matter what they were like."

Across the table, Mike put down his fork and leaned forward, obviously relishing a favorite subject. "St. Catherine of Sienna. Fascinating woman!"

"Definitely a Catholic saint," said Jason. "I never heard of her."

Niall took another bite of salmon, wishing Glenmirril's cooks could make the loch's fish taste so good. But his thoughts returned quickly to the conversation, equally succulent. He'd never heard of Catherine of Sienna, and didn't know if he should have. He phrased his question carefully. "What do you learn from her?"

Mike gestured with his hands, nearly hitting the serving woman who approached with a jug of water. Ewers of glass! Niall couldn't take his eyes off it, despite several days' acquaintance with such things, and missed the first of Bob's words. Amy nudged him. "It's just a pitcher! Are you okay?"

"Fine," Niall said. "It's just—beautiful." He pulled his eyes back to the others. Several of them glanced from him to the jug, frowning.

"...saw Jesus," Mike was saying. "He appeared in the flesh and offered her two crowns—one of roses and one of thorns."

Niall stopped eating and found himself leaning forward with the others.

"Which did she choose?" asked Ronda.

"Which would you have chosen?" Mike asked.

"Roses." Ronda set down her water glass. "Being a saint means you're doing everything right, right? So He was honoring her. Isn't Mary always shown with roses?"

"Roses signified Him granting her a good life," Mike said. "She took the thorns."

"Signifying a hard life," Niall mused. The roses in the garden filled his mind. Catherine's choice illuminated his own soul and desires.

"She wanted to be like Jesus in all things. He didn't have a life of ease, so she didn't want one, either."

Niall stole a sidelong glance at Amy, eating her salad, and wondered which crown he'd really hoped for, in the garden.

* * * * *

Chapter Sixteen

Central Scotland, 1314

Shawn, Allene, and Brother David slept briefly, buried in deep underbrush. The gypsies had carried them many miles in bumping caravans, giving them a much-needed rest, and hot food. The black bruises ringing Brother David's eyes had faded to mottled yellow, his breathing had eased, and the limp was almost gone. They slept by night, short as that was, and traveled by day, with less fear of Edward's men, and greater difficulty seeing at night, in the thickest forest they'd yet encountered. Nestled in his mossy bed, with Allene curled in his arm, and her hair brushing his nose, Shawn reviewed his situation.

He'd been switched in time, impossible as that was to believe. Glenmirril was his best—perhaps only—prospect for getting back. Yet he was following Allene away from his only hope. He traced events, from his moment of realization in the cellar. He couldn't very well have insisted on leaving the village the wrong way, with the soldiers looking for him. He didn't know his way across the moors, or anywhere in Scotland, for that matter, so there'd been little choice but to follow Allene. So here he was, in a world over which he had no control. If Niall had been thrown into the twenty-first century, if he was smart, Shawn thought, he'd stay away from Glenmirril and any chance of a switch. Who would willingly come back to this brutal time? Does that mean I'm stuck? Or will the tower cause the switch without Niall?

He twisted in the dark underbrush, trying to get comfortable. Despite promising to get Allene safely to Hugh, it was she and Brother David guiding him, finding food and water. He'd fooled himself, thinking she'd felt protected in his arms, down there in the cellar. Moreover, shame stirred at his helplessness. He felt...hardly a man.

"What happens if Edward wins at Stirling?" Shawn asked. Somewhere in the dark, a brook bubbled over rocks.

"The Scots are destroyed," Allene said.

"He knows well he is not regarded as the king nor the man his father was," Brother David elaborated. "He is weary of being mocked. If he wins, he will slaughter every man on the battlefield. Then he'll send his armies throughout Scotland to kill the old men, women, and children of every clan that stood against him."